


Bip-bup

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Humor, Love-struck, M/M, Revelation, sudden change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8970148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This story is in honor of that gleeful little bounce Mark Gatiss gives Mycroft as he dismounts his treadmill in "The Sign of Three." It alters so much of how one imagines Mycroft to understand he's got that kind of laughing, frivolous, delighted, spontaneous joy in him. I was wanting to do a different kind of story--a story where there was "love in a single second" but not "love at first sight." It occurred to me that Greg could know Mycroft for decades and still never be allowed to see that skip...and that a man who already knew Mycroft very well might indeed fall blindingly, suddenly in love if that one detail were added.Hope you like it. I just needed something happy tonight.





	

Greg often found Mr. Holmes--the elder Holmes--irksome, annoying, distant, overwhelming, frustrating as bloody hell. That didn't mean he didn't like him--in truth, as peeved as he often was by the mysterious master of MI6, he both respected and liked him. The man might be condescending, patronizing and bossy--but he was also dutiful, honorable (with the extremely odd tolerances of an espionage analyst), and, behind all his bluff and bluster, sweetly loving. There was no missing that he adored his madcap younger brother and would go through hell for him. He put up with John Watson--and Lestrade knew enough about espionage issues to recognize that as an act of disciplined decency on Mycroft's part. Yes, it was obnoxious of Sherlock to presume that because Lestrade did help Mycroft manage Sherlock's wilder kick-ups that he must, of course, do whatever Big Brother commanded. But the truth was that Mycroft did not demand all that much, and when he did it usually proved amusing and necessary. Lestrade could feel useful and dutiful while having the kind of adventure that occurred less and less often in his life: no rules, no limits, pedal to the metal and only two wheels out of four in contact with the pavement as often as not. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the potential of a medal and danger pay when it was all totted up. 

So, no. He did not dislike Mr. Holmes. He regarded him as a rather priggish, tight-arsed Santa with a bag of covert projects he might assign Greg on holidays and as an occasional busman's holiday. He even felt a mild affection for the man.

He was not expecting that to change, either. Until it did--and in changing, changed everything.

It started out so innocently and unexpectedly. The Diogenes Club, like many larger buildings in London, presented a vast, uniform facade; however, to allow natural light in, and to provide ventilation and exterior access, it was designed around several internal atria. Most had originally been nothing more than plain concrete paved courtyards in which desperate smokers huddled during smoke breaks. When the Diogenes was purchased and established in the 1980s, though, someone had determined this to be a waste of potential, and had converted each into a distinct little garden. Lestrade was aware of this--though he was seldom there often enough to take advantage. Few did--the lush little jewels were often vacant. Nonetheless they remained.

It would not have happened, had Lestrade not decided to stay at the Diogenes one afternoon, having dropped off a thumb drive with Mycroft. Once the club's bottle of Glenmorangie had sounded its siren song, he decided also that he'd best hide himself as well as he could behind one of the little islands of potted plants framing one end of the bar. So he'd hunkered behind the palm trees and ficus attempting to be unnoticeable. He did so well that Mycroft Holmes failed to notice his presence. The younger MI6 analyst had proceeded to walk past the bar at high speed--nothing unusual there. Mr. Holmes could move like light speed without breaking a sweat or appearing to exert himself, gliding like a swan over a frictionless lake surface. That wasn't what made Lestrade sit up and pay attention. No--it was the pert, exuberant little bounce he gave as he slipped from the public lounge to a narrow corridor. 

The movement was adorable. Precious. Child-like in the most amusing way. He practically skipped that last step or two that took him into the shadowed hallway. Had Mycroft been a puppy and Lestrade been videoing him, the result would absolutely have gone viral--zoooooom-slide, SKIP! You did not have to see Mycroft's grin to know it was there. 

Curiosity burned. The motion was so very un-Mycroft to Greg's eyes. It was a glimpse of a private Mycroft Lestrade had never imagined in all the years of association. 

Skip? Really? Skip? Mycroft Holmes?

He could no more resist slinking after than he could have resisted a chance to put Sherlock in his place. So he found himself pouring the Glenmorangie down his throat far faster than he ought, setting his glass down, and ghosting down the corridor himself, head down and walking with a pretended confidence that insisted he knew what he was doing and where he was going.

He had to take two turns, praying he would not lose Mycroft by staying far enough back to be missed, before he reached the final turn into the door onto an atrium. He almost bombed through the door without pause, before good sense cut in. He made himself wait a full five minutes according to his smart phone. Only then did he ease the door of the atrium open and slip silently in, peering around.

Evening was coming. The garden was dim, illuminated by little streetlamps shining on the lush garden. The air was cooler than indoors--but warmer than Lestrade knew the outdoors proper was. The garden apparently benefited from the borrowed heat of the main building. Not that London often got too cold, but--cold enough.  It was like entering a dream--warm, soft, damp air, the glow of the lamplight, the faintest stir of the foliage, the dappled, spotted effect of flowers everywhere.

At one end of the garden, Mycroft Holmes. Knees secure on a heavily padded kneeler, tucking a plump little pansy plant into the bed. It was a very classic pansy--rich purple, splashes of gold, and near-black. A sober little floral face with fuzzy trim, begging for a kiss. Mycroft's was as enticing as the pansy's, though lacking more fuzz than neatly maintained eyebrows would suggest. It was similarly innocent, sober, and sweet. 

Mycroft Holmes gardened. 

No, remembering the skip down the hall, and reckoning in the glow of his eyes, he not only gardened--he loved gardening. 

Lestrade faded into the next pathway, disappearing from the younger man's possible sight. He thought.

No. He didn't think. Not really, though he'd later try to claim he had. Instead he _felt_ \--sudden, sweeping, awakened love and delight. In that demanding moment he loved Myroft Holmes.

Other men might have argued about it. Greg didn't. Instead he strode, invisible, down the aisle until he nearly reached Mycoft--then stretched, tagged, and pulled the other man close, then murmured, "Fancy meeting you here."

Mycroft came apart--arms and legs in separate hysteria as he flailed away from the unexpected attack. To keep him from falling over, Greg needed to grip him gently. 

"Shhh, now, now, sorry to surprise you. Me--Lestrade." He loved Mycroft the more for his panic, his squeak of dismay, his wide eyes as he scrambled backward. "It's all right, mate, you're safe."

"Safe." Mycroft turned, and stared, eyes utterly unbelieving. "What are you doing here, DI Lestrade?"

"Followed you." He grinned, amused, and jerked his head slightly, indicating the beautiful night garden. "Quite a place, this."

"The Diogenes has several atria, almost all one form of garden or another. They left one that accesses into the back alley unchanged, as the traffic levels and storage there would make gardening impractical."

"And now I know who gardens them."

"Only occasionally." He looked away and pointedly returned to his previous position on the kneeler--once again in control, once again walled away from his associate.

"Mmm-hmmm."

Mycroft's lips tightened. "It's not any business of yours."

"But knowing makes a big difference."

"Hardly. People have...hobbies." It was clear he found the very word distasteful.

"Too revealing for me to know yours, though?" 

"I am a private man."

"Yeah..." Greg found his voice going soft, tender--and found one hand rising, stroking the other man's cheek. He was standing in front of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes was kneeling in front of him. It summoned...ideas. "Me, too."

Mycroft snorted and looked up, eyes mocking, "Oh for heaven's sake, DI--" He stopped when Lestrade leaned over, hovering for a brief moment before descending to kiss him. In that little interval he completely failed to object.

He continued to fail to object as the kiss moved from hesitant and awkward on both sides, to exploratory, to deeply desirous. He failed to object when Lestrade dropped to his own knees and pulled Mycroft close.

Mycroft was warm, Lestrade thought. He'd already removed his jacket and the heat of his body radiated from his trim waistcoat and the thin cotton of his shirt. "God. Again," he murmured, and wrapped Mycroft tighter, kissing him again, deeply. After a moment Mycroft struggled, surfacing, growling...

"Why?"

Lestrade had never doubted his ability to convey desire. He smiled, glowing with it, and said, "Wanted to. Wanted _you_."

He didn't fail this time, either--though Mycroft looked confused and frightened, he did not doubt. "But...why? Why now? Why me?"

"You skipped."

Mycroft frowned. "What?"

"Saw you on the way out here. You didn't see me. You...skipped." He freed one hand and imitated Mycroft going to the garden--smooth, stately--then _bip-bup_! That happy little bounce.

"I skipped."

"Yep."

"I do, you know. Occasionally. It's hardly a national secret."

"You hide it."

Mycroft frowned. "I'm a private man, DI Lestrade."

"Greg."

"Greg. I don't go illustrating my personal character quirks on a daily basis."

"I know. So--all these years I never knew that Mycroft Holmes skips on his way to garden in the Diogenes."

"Hardly a show-stopper, I would think."

"Wrong. All the world of difference between Mycroft Holmes the grim analyst--and Mycroft Holmes the grim analyst who skips."

Mycroft frowned even more deeply, opened his mouth to object--and failed. His own analytical skills forbade it. "Oh," he said, shaken.

"Yeah. Oh. Liked the first Mycroft all right." He traced Mycroft's lips. "Think I love the second."

Mycroft did not object, though he looked uncertain and confused.

That was all right, Lestrade thought. They could work it out, given time. It was possible to work out almost anything with a man who skipped on the way to his garden.

 

 

 


End file.
